


American Honey

by prodigalsanyo



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Family Dynamics, Gen, Hate Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:40:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22681855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prodigalsanyo/pseuds/prodigalsanyo
Summary: It was 183 days since Gil drank alone and still counting.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright
Comments: 10
Kudos: 34
Collections: Prodigal Son Kink Meme





	American Honey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [batonblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/batonblue/gifts).



> batonblue, this is all your fault. And I quote:
> 
> "I’ll put it in the kink meme too lmao buttttt I need someone to write a fic where Gil is all up in his head worrying about Malcolm on Father’s Day, like through work/cases/possible whump. And then at the end Malcolm shows up at his house with a bottle of whiskey and tells him happy Father’s Day"

Jackie went to heaven Sept 23 2016. About 28 days later, most of the thoughts and prayers and cards and donations had dropped off to normal levels. Gil curled all the way into the bottle in the quiet. He switched from candy to cough drops, the menthol better equipped to downplay the contents of Gil's dinner the previous night.

His decision to drink alone was an economical one. He adjusted his macros to keep the Calorie math balanced without compromising his weight lifting benchmarks. Weight gain would inform people of sloppy housekeeping, give them license to encroach. There would be questions, spontaneous visits, a call from his minister over coffee. As long as he restricted his liquid dinners to after 10 pm, Gil could avoid the breezy slope into day drinking. He wouldn't be that uncle.

It was always after 10 pm somewhere, right?

He wouldn't have been much of a father. Bright escalated contact from a weekly call to almost daily texts that went justifiably unanswered. Gil had nothing to say in response to oddly cropped screenshots of a TV show with funky fonts that never accurately captioned the original script. The kid was being sweet, earnest to make up for lost time from when he had to prove himself to some unit chief. Bright also compensated for the fact that he bounced from coast to flatlands to skirting the borders.

With Bright sweating his next step promotion which would determine how wide his professional horizons could stretch if he transferred laterally, they just chatted without really talking. Gil was denied the directness of a simple pat that would've done the work of 1000 words. Made harder without Jackie turning her ear to Malcolm's scholarly narratives while hot glueing her favorite family photos and glossed images of Godly words on her latest crafts project. Bright used to call her first with Gil sitting nearby on speaker phone, TV muted on whatever Netflix original streamed from their Firestick.

When the "meems" didn't work, Bright took to sending Gil photos of food on his road trips. Avocado toast which Bright could stomach. Sushi, which Bright did eat if it wasn't tempura. The pulled pork buns were suspect; Malcolm never did soggy. When Bright sent Gil a basket of fire engine red crawfish, Gil texted him promptly.

<<Bull. Your partner ate that. Send me the crap you eat. Let me see a pic of you putting this in your mouth. Then send me a pic of your numbers next time you weigh in.>>

Afterwards, Bright sent Gil candids of the finest vintage of Deer Park seltzer water, silken fruit bars shot from different angles each text, and different birds and rodents native to North America which Bright lured in for photos with sandwiches he should've been eating.

<<Gdi Bright. Eat. I want to see you with roasted birb.>>

Maybe it hurt a little that Gil heard from Malcolm with all these barriers in play when the last he had seen of Malcolm's mother was the back of her McQueen scarf at Jackie's church after she dropped a check that covered the funeral services, the casket burial, light bills, and some top shelf Scotch that Gil shared with no one.

Gil was doing a pretty solid job on his new diet, keeping his head down as Lieutenant, until an off-duty officer, not his precinct thank God, was found stabbed and hanged from a giant sculpture of a steel cube painted red. The officer survived, the first one anyway. The attacker made up their mistake by stringing up what remained of a former retired cop from a park statue of an old world revolutionary figure.

No officers subordinate to Gil flinched at "bomb" after dealing with every piece of discarded luggage that was reported abandoned around NYC following the pressure cooker bomb discovered by civillians. But the threat of a vigilante cop killer had his Captain busting morale to get results.

The third killing, a new officer on their probationary period, took place in a different service area. This one had multiple stab wounds, but the executioner's knot found on rope in the prior attacks tied in the latest murder.

"Why did the killer... go to town on this one, Edrisa?" Gil hovered close, chipping at his cough drop, not content to simply send out a detective team.

"They picked a young one this time. The first officer was by no means old, but their blood alcohol levels inhibited their ability to fend off our killer. The second one was older, their ambulatory range limited by their physical disability. Hence, the reason why this poor young thing was slain more viciously was because they put up the most fight."

The fourth victim wasn't hanged but they were found bled out and strangled, the bitten end of the rope looped into a distinct executioner's knot. The details on the rope wasn't public knowledge. The media had dubbed this year's serial killer The Hangman.

"This one isn't a cop. What's their play?" Gil demanded of their resident behavior expert.

Gil's team were conferenced in the case room, staring at the boards, seeing only the photographed noose. Like the noose closing around the Lieutenant's neck if they couldn't produce their first suspect.

"Your killer has police background. I'm certain of it. When you get an ID on their most recent victim, we'll have our connection to Hangman's motive," said the profiler.

"It's not someone who's ever been a cop," Gil disagreed.

"Well, they've been pretty clever. A probie. A retired one. The first one is on medical leave. No officers recently reported missing which points to our latest vic as a civilian. Technically, no official cop kills," said the profiler.

"We've gotta get 'em before that happens. Once FBI takes over, we lose our home advantage," said Gil, balling up the cough drop wrappers in his trouser pocket.

If FBI muscled in on The Hangman investigations, it wouldn't be Gil's boy on his threshold. Bright's face passed through his mind. The kid hadn't texted him an underwhelming food pic in a week. 

"Where are you, Bright?" Gil said on their last call. The connection was clear but for an almost rhythmic plink! that Gil heard.

"Getting ehhh what's the count now? Oh, yes, getting 24-- eep!! Oh hello nurse, conjoined spines... I'm getting 26 three-quarters inch long cactus spines removed from my pelvis. Looks like a vampire pitbull thought I was a mailman!"

"You did not impale your ass on a fucking cactus." Gil had worried about snakes, scorpions, and the extremely dangerous criminals wanted by the Feds on both sides of the border.

Not...

" _Ferocactus tobuschii_ , and it had the prettiest yellow blooms. If they weren't endangered by pesky pesky weevils, these succulents would look gorgeous on my counter. Their alternate name is the fishhook cactus and boy does it live up to its nom de guerre!! Ugh, gotta go, Gil."

"Bright! Are you safe?"

"I'm fine. About to have thousands of microscopic cactus hairs peeled from my right anterior. It's going to be like ripping a band aid off of my sun poisoning so heh I'll be one smooth bastard."

"Good to hear, kid. Rest up. And have the tequila."

"Dunno, Gil. Kinda had my fill of desert plants today though the agave plant from which tequila is derived is more closely related to lillies not cacti..."

"Have the tequila. It'll help when you gotta flip between sleeping on your belly or your ass," Gil advised before Bright was obliged to hang up.

Gil came out of his reverie when one of his sergeants knocked.

"Yes?"

"Excuse me, Gil. Um. I need you to field an extremely sensitive call at my desk. It's about The Hangman," explained the sergeant.

"Conference in my direct dial. Two minutes. Then you mute your line and put it on hold and join me in my office," directed Gil.

"I'll brief you all about follow-up with our caller," Gil told the team.

"Hello," Gil said. "Am I coming in clear?"

The caller was a woman; she affirmed.

"You're Lieutenant Arroyo?" asked the caller. She sounded dead.

"Yes, ma'am. What can I do for you?" Gil responded.

"I-- uh... I think my brother-in-law is dead. He's been in trouble but we haven't heard from him for a few days. My husband can come in any time tomorrow when he's off duty."

"Ma'am, please stand by for a minute. If I lose you, I'll dial you on the number listed on my caller ID," said Gil. He put the distraught woman on hold, turning to his sergeant for answers.

"It's Clark Jr, sir. We're friends. It could be his brother's body in the morgue," said the sergeant, mouth twisted. "I know them both. His brother's over ten years younger than him. Clark practically raised his baby bro. Kid was getting hisself together."

"The victim... is related to an officer," repeated Gil.

God, he was parched. But he was out of cough drops. As Gil spun his wedding band, contemplating his next move, his eye caught the little red dot blinking on his phone.

"Get a cruiser to their residence. Secure Clark's family."

"Thanks Lieuten," said the sergeant, gulping. "So do I...?"

"I'll finish the call and also talk to your buddy Clark. You get one of your units on their way," said Gil, incidentally placing his sergeant in a debt of gratitude to Gil forever.

For not having to make the call.

Gil forced himself to leave his office and face his team soberly without sweets to soothe or any lozenges to numb his throat. He called an emergency meet for all personnel he supervised.

"Tonight, you are leaving work on time, no straggling. Go be with your families. Call them. I'm calling mine. This case hits close to home. A recent development suggests the killer switched tacts from pursuing cops to our families. You'll find out soon enough if this report is not exaggerated."

Gil clocked out at his official shift end time so others would do the same. He wanted to dive down the slippery slope of drinking before 10 pm but for tomorrow's trials.

He went straight to bed after his shower, got in maybe three hours before his eyes snapped open, sweat soaking the sheets in his boxers.

Bright just texted him Skittles arranged in a smiley on a fucking styrofoam plate. 

<<various naturally occurring pigment in foods are chockful of vitamins. a colorful plate tends to be most nutritious.>> Gil read.

Bright got a call from Gil. He greeted Gil, peppy and wired, through a full mouth.

"Are you eating candy for dinner?" Gil demanded.

"It's dessert," Bright insisted. "I'm cross sampling subvarieties of Skittles, the standard flavors, the sours, and the tropicals."

"Jesus, kid. You consider eating fruit maybe?" Gil checked the world clock on his phone before hunching his shoulder to flex the phone to his ear. "And you need to be in bed, too."

"Why? I'm in good company past human hours," retorted Bright.

His steps had taken him to his kitchen. His hand was already closed around bourbon.

"Jesus," Gil muttered. He flicked on the lights, startled to see that the glass bottle was already drained. In the dim kitchen light, with one bulb that burned out a few days ago, Gil saw his sink crowded with dirty coffee tumblers and coffee grinds slopped on the lid of his trash can.

The trash can itself wasn't smelly; he never cooked and ate at home anymore.

Gil, who squatted serious donuts in the weight room, had no difficulty moving the heavy recycle bin without dragging the recycle bin. Bright must've heard the glass clinking in Gil's heavy recycle bin. 

"When did you take up your new habit. Gil," Bright said. "You can talk to me."

"It would be easier if you were here," said Gil. As he said it, he knew it sounded like a whiney excuse.

"Go to bed, kid. I'll talk when I see--"

"You might not see me again. I'm about to wrap things up," chirped Bright. "I think I know where my packages are."

"Could you sound like you're concerned for your own sake?" Gil said. Bright couldn't give him specifics on the dangers he faced as a field agent.

"What's up at your precinct, Gil? You're about due for your performance eval. Are you about to get a strike?"

Bright charged ahead. "No, about to get another strike. This is about The Hangman. What's your deadline to turn it around?"

"I've got three and a half weeks. The suspect is someone who hates police," Gil began. He heard Bright turning over on bed springs impatiently.

"Because they know police. They're not, um, sick in the head like what you think with serial killers. Too many mistakes they made, they're not a killer. Whoever it is, we won't look like heroes," said Gil.

"Your captain's going to hang this on you however it works out. If you don't get 'em, you get put on work improvement plan and they'll shred you. When you do catch 'em, it's going to hurt the brotherhood and you have to whip everyone up from your desk," concluded Bright.

Bright hummed over the line. "If you've upped your daily alcohol intake, you might want to try taking your anti-depressant first thing in the morning instead of at night when you do most of your imbibing. If you've been washing down your scripts with more medicine, Gil, that might be exascerbating your mental condition. Space it apart. Your mornings won't feel so... pointless."

Gil took a deep breath. "Kid, have you...?"

"On my meds. I do my dailies. Would be dozing but I'm too keyed up for the mission. We're close, Gil. I can't spoil it for you, but God. If this plays out how I think it will, my chief will let me monster hunt. No more chasing greedy smugglers."

Meaning Bright would get an assignment that was denied to him upon hire. Bright had charmed his way into a badge and his yippy persona helped, but for obvious reasons, his recruiter had kept the most psychologically disturbing cases out of Bright's reach and wisely sidelined Bright to murder for profit or conspirital murders.

"Good for you, kid. Sounds like you're ready."

"Yes, I'm way too wired. Let's talk about your girl," said Bright.

"What? I'm not seeing anyone. How could you--"

"The Hangman. Gil. Don't tell me your profiler couldn't gender your unsub."

"Oh fuck. We're looking for a woman who did this?! How are they strong enough to heft their victims?" questioned Gil.

"Look at the damage she's done to the statues and sculptures. The rope is leftovers of her rig job. You search her residence, you'll find tools with red paint on them from the first killing. The giant red cube. Compare CSU photos with what's posted online."

"Who is she, Bright?"

"Oh Gil. Who did she lose? Why cops? Something old, something new, something borrowed, all of them blue. Oh yeah, you're after a white chick."

"Something old would be the retiree. Something new would be that poor probie. The first cop survived. But not all of them wore blues, Bright. I'm about to show a man his brother's body. The deceased is a kid practically."

"She probaby didn't mean to kill him. He was a kid. No, but if he disappeared for a few days, one cop would get a taste of what losing your heart feels like. She meant to borrow him."

"How did you know the victim's brother was police?" asked Gil.

"Because all she's ever known is police. But she's never been in the line of fire herself. Anyone who has been wouldn't attack behind the shield. Even bad cops would show themselves to a brother they're gonna silence for good."

"Jesus, kid. You're thinking someone's wife or their girlfriend is capable...?"

"Of fucking the police, absolutely," said Bright.

"When your man, your officer who's about to have the worst day of his entire life, when he shows up at the city morgue... she's going to be there, too. She will cry with him. Because he'll identify with her loss."

"Gil, what are you doing?" Bright asked. He heard the splashing.

"I quit. I tap out. Dumping all the cheap stuff. Right down the tubes. I'm going to be all there when I show up. I won't look away." Gil threw the bourbon bottle into the recycler, rattling with the other empties.

"Are you drying up completely?"

"No. I'm just done drowning in it. I've been drowning for months and it hasn't stopped. I'm only going to touch the stuff when it's in two glasses. New rule for myself."

"I'll see your stupid ass in June, yeah?" Gil said when Bright sat quietly.

"Yeah. I'll be in the city for a week before taking off from JFK. Gonna hole up with my books in a little French provincial town."

"Don't read in the streets, Bright. You'll get snatched."

"No no, won't be causing an international incident," Bright assured. "Not before I bag my first killer. Best wishes for yours."

"You really think I'll catch our Hangman at the morgue? It's too simple."

"If she shows up with him, she won't be able to keep herself away from the kid. When she's seeing his face, ask her why. When her heart's open."

Gil posted cops who weren't close to Clark outside the morgue entrance in the basement level. He and his team stood with the family, Gil's throat burning despite the chill of death.

Clark Jr schooled his face and his body, all that was missing was his uniform. He said nothing, slid his fingers under the corpse's neck, stroking the corpse's ear. Clark Jr closed his eyes and quietly pet the hair, deliberately avoiding the rigid skin.

"Why did you do it?" Gil asked Clark's wife.

JT restrained Clark while Clark's wife raised her hands to the front for Dani's cuffs.

"My daddy was a detective. He was stabbed making an arrest. The officer he was with ducked before shooting. For a knife fight, really. The officer didn't get the scum who killed my daddy, stayed with him, watched him die. He retired after 30 years service. I hanged him like a goddamn piñata."

"What about the first guy?"

"He's always hitting on me. Decided to start with a dog. Don't think he was having fun at the bar until I was there. He knew Clark, put his hand on me."

"Why did you kill my brother, you--" 

JT was stronger though Clark was coiled and leaning into a charge. Gil put himself between Clark and his wife.

"I meant to scare him because he was using again. Too much like his mom. He died like a junkie in our storage cube. When I came for him, well, already had his body. You would've blamed yourself, thought it'd be better if The Hangman did it."

"You sick bitch. You should've got me when you caught him, alive!"

"He's not a child anymore. You were going to baby him."

Clark looked away from her. "You don't know what I would've done. I didn't get to make that choice!"

Gil and JT stayed with Clark Jr while the arresting officers led away the guilty woman. Dani followed them.

"When she fries for this," said Clark Jr, "I'm not going to stick around. What's the point? Always wanted to enlist, but he needed someone."

"I'm sorry, baby boy," Clark Jr said. His shoulders folded and he hung his head, butting it onto the corpse's skull. "I couldn't raise you right, after all."

"Hey," Gil stepped in. "You were there."

"I should've beat him like how our dad would have. But I'm not his dad. I just... I wanted to see him grown. He could have done anything he wanted."

"You might not have made him, but it's your boy. You can't smother them. You have to handle your own business when they're out of your sight," said Gil. "In the back of your head, you knew the worst might happen. All you can do is work and take care of everyone else when things get crazy again."

"Heard about your wife, Lieutenant. My condolences," acknowledged Clark Jr.

"You got one of your own, Tarmel?" asked Clark Jr.

"No, not yet. Me and the wife are saving for a house," said JT.

"That's good. I don't have any mini me's. Probably never will cuz fuck bitches. Fuck," Clark Jr said.

"I didn't know you had a son, Gil."

"Mine's sort of a stray. I didn't make one either," said Gil.

What an odd club they made.

"C'mon. My office, gentlemen. We're going to break into my emergency drawer. And see this through," Gil said, taking the lead.

Bright had a lot to tell Gil when he landed. Gil considered calling Jessica and telling her "Guess who's in town?" But as soon as he saw those puppy dog eyes at Newark airport terminal, his selfish heart turned off his phone, unplugged himself from all distractions.

"Happy Father's Day, Daddy-O," Bright said. "I wanted to bring you a fine whiskey but, well, you know, liquids exceeding 4 fluid ounces and TSA."

Gil laughed and slid his fingers along Bright's collar, thumbing his ear, before picking him up in a ferociously grizzly hug.

"Who cares? You're here! Now you get to tell me what went down, not what the Times says happened," Gil said.

Gil drove them to his place in the Le Mans. Bright stalled in sharing his work before finally opening up to Gil.

"We found where the smugglers were bringing the children. They posed as the parents and wired their profits overseas after selling the children. I'm never going through that again," said Bright.

"Because guess who is going to Austin?! Forget la Sud de France! We've got a torture enthusiast in God's own country. Can't wait, can't wait. I canceled France for this." Malcolm was rubbing his paws together.

"Hold on, before you get ahead of yourself, kiddo. How about you kick it with me for this week? I'll try not to bore you."

"Ohhh, are you taking me to work with you?"

"I have off this week. We're going to the cape. You are going to take a damn vacation with me. We might even go crabbing."

"But Gil!"

"What? You're already packed. You've got your meds, restraints, and some nice shirts, right? You can buy trunks and flip flops anywhere."

Bright turned around and noticed Gil's duffle squashed into the back of the Le Mans.

"I can't believe you're dragging me on a vacation," Bright whined. He blinked his puppy eyes at Gil. "But if you're also packed, why are we at your place?"

"We're gonna start off our vacation right. I ordered dinner. And don't worry, I won't make you eat anything that's got a face," said Gil.

Bright grinned at him, enjoying being doted over and getting treated like a helpless puppy.

"Jackie would be happy that we're having dinner at home," conceded Bright.

They toasted their victories, together, over Scotch that Gil shared with no one. Except his boy.

It was 183 days since Gil drank alone and still counting.

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe I wrote something wholesome. From a prodigal son trash discord server.


End file.
